Nothing to Lose
by Sidewalk Doctor
Summary: “I know why you’re here,” he said, trying for his usual selfassured smugness, but failing. “You’ve got nothing left to lose... perhaps we have more in common than you thought.”


**Nothing to Lose**

_**A/N:** This story is set a year after the seventh book. Spoilers up to _Half-Blood Prince.

A wine goblet sat on the table. There was still a bit rosé in the bottom, left over from last night. The goblet was of the finest hand-blown glass money could buy, a gift from Mrs. Weasley when Hermione and Ron had announced their engagement. Hermione rarely drank from any of the goblets in the set, reluctant to risk defiling the extravagant gift the Weasleys could ill afford. Instead, she kept the set on the top shelf of her cupboard, where they would not come to harm.

She imagined grabbing the wine goblet and hurling it at the wall, for no other reason but to break the oppressive silence that filled the apartment. She imagined the satisfying shatter of glass against wood, shards littering the carpet and blood-red wine oozing down the wall.

Ron paced the kitchen, gazing everywhere but her while she sat at the table gazing everywhere but at him. Her hand remained still at her side.

"How could you?" Ron demanded at last, his strangled voice threatening to break any minute. "We've been together for two years. We're supposed to get _married!_ How could you… with _Malfoy?_" He spat the word out as if it tasted bad.

Hermione flinched at the sound of the name. One of the few things she and Ron had in common was mutual loathing of Draco Malfoy. The irony of this moment was not lost on her, and for an insane second she fought the urge to burst out laughing.

She contemplated giving the standard excuse—_It was just a one-time thing. It didn't mean anything._ But really, what was the point? It didn't change what she'd done. She knew it was a lie, and she knew that as soon as the words left her lips Ron would know, too.

The thunk of a fist hitting the counter galvanized her into action. "Answer me!" Ron demanded.

"Why?" she countered, finally looking at him. "What do you want me to tell you? Do you want all the gory details? Will that make you feel better?"

All it took was one look for her to see she'd pushed him too far. He stood deadly still for a moment, the hand on the counter balled into such a tight fist his knuckles turned white. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strained. "God… I can barely look at you now. It's like I don't even know you anymore."

She hadn't expected that. The words hit harder than any insult he could've thrown at her. "Ron, I… I'm--"

"Don't," Ron cut her off, his voice colder than ever. "Don't even try to apologize." He began pacing the kitchen again, raking his fingers through his disheveled red hair. "I should've known. I should've seen the signs. Ever since Harry…." His voice trailed off.

"Ever since he _died,_ Ron." Hermione stood up, hiding her trembling hands behind her back. "Ever since Harry _died_."

There was a tense silence as that last word hung in the air, the one that had remained unspoken yet haunted them for almost a year. It coated her tongue like something bitter and vile.

Ron reeled as though she had struck him physically. "Ever since… Harry died," he said finally, with great difficulty, "you've barely been able to look at me. It's like you can't stand to have me touch you. And yet, you let that… that Slytherin _slime_…."

The shattering of glass against the wall cut him off. Startled, Ron stared first at the fractured remains of wine goblet littering the carpet, and then at Hermione, who stood shaking next to the dining table. "Get out," she said.

Ron couldn't believe he heard her right. "_What?_"

"I said get out." Hermione's glare was so fierce her eyes could've sliced through him like a white-hot razor.

Still in disbelief, Ron hesitated a moment, then dazedly left the apartment.

Hermione stood stock-still in the middle of the room for several moments after his departure. It was Crookshanks' curious mewing that startled her out of her daze. _Oh God,_ she thought, crouching down to clean up the mess made by the wine goblet. _What have I done?_

Hermione still couldn't say what brought her Draco Malfoy's door that night. And yet, there she was, standing on his doorstep in the blistering cold, her coat pulled tightly around her as she waited impatiently.

It was a house elf who answered the door. It led her to the study where Malfoy sat alone, the room lit only by a single lamp and the dull flicker of firelight from the hearth. His initial shock upon seeing her faded quickly, and an unnervingly knowing look came over his steel-gray eyes.

"Hermione Granger," he said, his voice as smooth and cool as the breeze wafting through the window. It had the same effect of raising goose bumps on the back of her neck. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

She sat down on the empty chair across from him, without waiting for him to invite her. Why _had_ she come by?

"I wanted to extend an apology for what happened with the Order," she said finally. His pale eyebrows arched in surprise, not that she would apologize but that this was the excuse she was giving for her visit.

"You have no need to apologize." He raised a glass of firewhiskey to his thin lips. "Why should any of you trust a murderous bastard like me? I tried to kill Dumbledore."

Hermione winced, giving him credit for knowing just the right thing to say to shake her up. "Right. But it turns out you were telling us the truth."

Draco lowered the glass and reached for an empty one. "Firewhiskey?" he offered.

Rattled, Hermione hastily collected herself and answered an affirmative. She watched as he poured the amber liquid into the crystal glass, then passed it to her. His cool fingers brushed hers and she nearly dropped the glass. She was unprepared for the jolt that ricocheted up her arm from the contact.

It was clear from his expression that he had noticed it, too. "Thank you," she muttered.

He settled back in his chair, unperturbed. "Frankly, I think I was treated quite well considering what I had done the last time you all saw me. I'm surprised you didn't hex me on the spot—which, actually, very nearly happened."

This was true. Hermione remembered all too well the night that Draco had unexpectedly shown up at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. He looked even paler and thinner than usual, his blond hair lank and his gray eyes dull. Gone was his usual air of arrogant self-importance. He looked as if something had drained all the life from him--not physically, although it might as well have been. When a dozen wands immediately pointed at him, he seemed completely indifferent—as though he did not fear death but welcomed it.

He claimed to have valuable information about the Death Eaters' next move. "If you don't move now, Potter will face the dark lord, and he will die," he warned.

Not surprisingly, no one believed him. Half the room wanted to hex him into oblivion right then and there. The other half, while suspicious of him, saw the value in keeping him around. He ended up being tossed into a dank basement room and locked there for days, until the Order could figure out what to do with him. It was Hermione who finally came down to see him.

"Does Weasel know you're here?" Draco asked lazily, bringing Hermione back to the present with a bump.

Hermione remained silent, taking a swig of firewhiskey to fill the awkward moment. A hint of a smirk curled the corner of Draco's mouth. "I guess that's a no. What would he think, his perfect fiancé consorting with the likes of me?"

She took another large gulp of firewhiskey, stalling for time. As the liquid seared a path down her throat, a much-needed sense of calm spread through her body. She hastily pulled herself together. "I see you've made quite a nice place for yourself, after everything that's happened."

The brief shadow that crossed his face belied his callous expression. "My father left it all to me. A bloke needs a place to live."

"Yes, and the house elves and luxuries don't hurt, either," she said sardonically.

"Well, if you've got it…." He shrugged and took another sip of firewhiskey. She wanted to throw her glass in his face.

After the war, Draco had been granted amnesty for the information he'd given to the Order, which had been crucial in turning the tide of the war. Not that it mattered much to him. His father was rotting away in Azkaban and his mother was dead. As for his two closest friends, Crabbe and Goyle, one was dead and the other was in St. Mungo's.

Not that Granger hadn't suffered her own losses. Her Muggle parents were still alive, but estranged. Apparently she wasn't on good terms with Weasel, either. And of course, nothing had been the same since Potter made the ultimate sacrifice to save the world.

Leave it to Potter to gain even more glory in death.

"You still haven't told me why you're here," Draco said, her restlessness not going unnoticed. "We both know it wasn't to apologize for something you'd have damn well done again, if you had the chance."

He was right about that. "Maybe I would, but that doesn't mean it was the right thing to do," she said. "If I'd listened to you earlier… if any of us had…."

Her voice trailed off, and she quickly quelled the growing lump in her throat with another burning gulp of firewhiskey.

"Then what?" Draco finished. "Then Potter would still be here? You don't seriously mean to blame yourself for not being able to save him, do you?" He sighed. "How like a Gryffindor."

Her brown eyes fired a venomous glare at him. "You really are an asshole, you know that?"

He tried to look smug, but the expression never reached his eyes. It was as though he were wearing a costume, acting out the scripted drama of his life. But he wasn't fooling anyone. Not her, and least of all himself.

"You wouldn't know a damn thing about being a hero," she continued, caustically. Her hands shook as she set down her empty glass and reached for the decanter of firewhiskey. "You've had everything handed to you on a silver platter your whole life. You wouldn't be able to stand on your own and do anything without someone stronger than you to hold you up."

Firewhiskey splashed across the carpet as he seized her wrist, knocking the glass from her hand. "My mother is dead," he said, his voice dangerously low. "She died because of me. Snape died trying to protect me. I sacrificed anything I might've had left to help the lot of you. So don't tell me about not being able to stand on my own."

"Oh please," she sniffed. "You only came to us because you had no one else. The Death Eaters would've killed you, too… you were just looking out for number one."

His grip tightened on her wrist, so hard she nearly gasped in pain. "So why did you believe me, then? Why did you, of all people, stand up for the likes of me?"

"Believe me, no one wanted you dead more than I did," she said in a low growl. "But you were the only thing left standing between Harry and certain death. I had no choice."

"I see." His grip relaxed, and the blood rushed back into her hand with searing heat. "You would trust your greatest enemy before risking anything happening to precious Potter."

"I would," she said. "Unlike you, Harry didn't run from death. He faced it and accepted it, for the sake of saving the world. He's got more strength, courage, and selflessness in his little finger than you will ever have in your entire body."

Draco's eyes grew so dark that for a moment, she was truly afraid. But then he calmed down as a look of realization dawned across his features. "Well, well, well…" he drawled. "Another facet to the never-ending drama of the Golden Trio unfolds. You loved Potter, didn't you?"

Hermione yanked her hand away, mouth agape at his nerve. "Of course I loved him… as a friend! Not that you would have any idea about that."

"You loved Potter, but you couldn't say anything to him because he was in love with Weasel's sister, and you were dating his best friend," Draco mused. "So you kept it quiet, suffering in silence like the noble Gryffindor you are--"

_Smack!_ The slap of her hand across his cheek resounded in the quiet room like a gunshot. "You are a vile, disgusting human being!" Hermione snarled, leaping to her feet. She swayed slightly as the amount of whiskey she'd imbibed caught up with her.

He smirked, raising a hand to his stinging cheek. "And yet you still come here, spending your evening with me rather than your loving fiancé."

"I don't see you throwing me out," she shot back.

"Maybe I just have a strange fascination with seeing how far this will go."

"Or maybe you're exactly what I always thought you were," she said. "A selfish, weak-willed coward. Every day you live knowing you don't deserve to. And maybe now, you just might hate yourself enough to enjoy slumming with a mudblood like me."

A gasp tore from her throat as the next thing she knew, Draco was off the chair and pinning her against the wall, his hands gripping her wrists with crushing strength. "You are really asking for it, aren't you, Granger?"

She just glared at him, as if daring him to do his worst. At this point, she didn't care anymore. "Do it," she taunted. "Hex me. Kill me. Whatever makes you happy. Would that reaffirm that you still are the badass of Hogwarts, if only in your own mind?"

For a moment they were at a standstill, each waiting to see what the other would do. She was startled when he released her, backing away slowly. "I know why you're here," he said, trying for his usual self-assured smugness, but failing. "There's nothing else for you. The man you love is dead and the one you're with isn't enough. You've got nothing left to lose." He broke into a dry, humorless smile. "Perhaps we have more in common than you thought."

She drew a deep, steadying breath, but it did little to soothe her jangled nerves. Merlin, she hated him. And yet… she hated herself more because she knew, deep down, that he was right. "Maybe," she murmured. "I just might hate myself enough to want to be with you."

He advanced upon her, moving as smoothly as a predatory animal. She didn't budge. When he touched her face it was with an unexpected tenderness, his fingers grazing her skin and leaving a trail of tingles in their wake. She hated herself for feeling this way. She hated herself for letting her eyes slide shut and her face tilt upward, moving toward him as instinctively as a moth to the crackling firelight.

He put his hands on the side of her face, his cool lips brushing hers ever so lightly. Yet it was enough to ignite a flare of heat deep inside of her, stirring an emotion long since lost. She craved it, wanted more of it, wanted just to feel something besides the cold. Her hands came up to grip his shoulders as she leaned into him, opening her mouth to him in eager response as the kiss deepened.

He crushed her to him with near-brutal force, his hands pressing the small of her back and practically burning through the thick wool sweater she wore. She gripped the lapels of his shirt, as if to ground herself amid the dizzying sensations sweeping over her. They staggered backwards towards the middle of the room, hands frantically grappling with clothing while their lips and tongues meshed in a flurry of frantic, heated urgency. She raised her arms to allow him to pull the sweater over her head, then hastily began unbuttoning his shirt. It didn't matter that they were still in his study and a house elf could walk in any minute. Nothing mattered anymore but the heady bliss about to envelop them, an intoxicating if temporary reprieve.

Hermione's hands were numb as she turned the key and entered her apartment sometime around 3 a.m. She'd left her gloves at Malfoy's manor in her haste to get out. She didn't want to deal with waking up next to him… she didn't want to deal with acknowledging that evening at all.

Wearily, she slumped down at the table and muttered "_Accio." _A wine goblet floated to the table, one of the expensive ones Mrs. Weasley had given her. It was all she could do to pour the wine and take a sip. She knew more alcohol was the last thing she needed, but she desperately wanted the comfortable numbness it would bring to her.

_What have I done?_

She didn't remember when she fell asleep, or even how she ended up staggering to her bed. But she woke up the next morning with a dry mouth and pounding headache, the sheets tangled around her bare legs. Groggily, she glanced at the clock, remembering that Ron was supposed to come over in a half and hour. They were going shopping today for rings. He hadn't had one when he'd asked her to marry him. She was wearing his mother's old ring, until he got paid again and could afford to buy her a new one.

The bile rose in Hermione's throat, and she barely made it to the bathroom before spilling the contents of last night's dinner into the toilet. She couldn't keep this up. She couldn't drift through life, playing the part, pretending to feel things she didn't think she could feel anymore.

Except once. But she wasn't going to think about that.

She staggered into the shower, which helped wake her up somewhat, before changing into a turtleneck and jeans. She still had the marks on her neck, as well as other parts of her body as well, from her night with Malfoy. She realized she wanted to hide them as much from herself as from Ron.

A knock sounded at her door, and numbly, she answered it. Ron stood on the other side, looking flushed and excited. "Hey," he said, and leaned over to kiss her. She shied away so the kiss landed on her ear.

Ron frowned, more perturbed that he let on at her actions. "Hermione… are you OK?"

She shook her head, wiping her sweaty palms across her thighs. "No, Ron… I'm not." She drew a deep breath, summoning her courage as she turned to face him. "We need to talk."

THE END

**A/N:**

"She… wanted just to feel something besides the cold" is a paraphrase of a line from _Angel: the Series._ I tried not to use it, but it was just too good to pass up.


End file.
